Superstition Might Actually Be The Way

We win! We win, we win, we don’t lose, we win!! We just won the series against the Indians, a team that has been chosen by a semi-legitimate sports outlet to win their division! I refused to let myself believe it was possible until we had two outs in the eighth, at which point I allowed it to occur to me, and then I immediately kicked myself for possibly jinxing it. I spent the rest of the game working on convincing myself that we would blow it in the ninth.

This is how superstitious I am about baseball. I will use the same coffee mug for weeks with only a rinse between uses if I think it’s giving the Mariners an advantage. I fully support dugout traditions like not talking to a guy who’s working on a no-hitter. And I am terrified of the all-powerful concept of “jinxing it”. I’m not like this about anything else; I’ll walk under ladders without a second thought, I’m completely unconcerned with black cats, and the only thing I do when salt spills is clean it up. When I was pregnant and excited to tell everyone, someone told me it was customary to wait until the twelfth week. I rolled my eyes and said scornfully, “puh-leeze, you can’t jinx it just by talking about it, it’s not like baseball.” I pour all my irrational beliefs into this game. Even today, I’m halfway worried that the act of typing this could cause time to reverse, and we’ll have lost on a grand slam by Aaron Boone.

Hey, remember little Aaron? I’ve always been curious about the relationship between him and Bret. I remember that home run Aaron got for the Yankees that took them to the World Series in 2003. Bret was in the booth, and it struck me that he did not look the least bit pleased for his little bro. Granted, I didn’t get much of the audio; I was at a sports bar, and it was tough to hear much over the people who were shrieking and wailing and shaking their fists in fury at the heavens. (Oh, who am I kidding, that was mostly me.)

The antithesis of my jinx-o-phobia is Mr. Housewife, whose newly energized baseball enthusiasm started Wednesday, when he predicted Richie Sexson’s grand slam. During last night’s game, Mr. H was about to leave to pick up a pizza. It was the bottom of the sixth, and an Indian was on third with one out. Just before leaving, Mr. H pointed at the tv and said, “Unassisted double play. Beltre.” He opened the door, got in the car, and before he was out of the driveway Beltre immediately turned an unassisted double play. Of course I did what any rational person would do- ran after the car like a madwoman and ordered him to hurry up with that pizza so he could come back and continue to predict the Mariners into succeeding. I know it’s a little crazy, but hey, whatever works.